And Earth sends up her anthem-shout

That loving hearts increase:

Fight on, keep heart, look up, be firm;

And never once forget

That Heaven proclaims this God-stamped truth, “The Right shall conquer yet."

THE BATTLE OF THE GREAT REDAN.

GIVE ear to the most terrible, the reddest, roughest

fray,

That ever paved with human bones, for peace, a triumph

way;

And to him who there contended hard, our country's friend or foe,

Let justice, from her righteous throne, the meed of praise bestow.

Where Tauric Chersonesus rears its high and rocky

coast,

A band went out to battle, a stout and sturdy host; And the guerdon of their fighting was the praises of the free,

A smile from dear old England, and France, and

Liberty.

Through the wild Crimean winter,-'neath a burning

summer's sun,

They faced and fought the Cossack-hordes, and fearful

battles won;

Till they overthrew the armies of Russia's proudest

Czar,

And crushed the haughty tyrant with the mighty shock of war.

Our messengers came bringing their chronicles of death, Till deeds of might out-ringing made Europe hold her breath,

And look in silent terror on the scene of blood and

flame,

And own the bold besieging host are worthy of their

name.

Fierce, and fiercer grew the battle, as each parallel they drew,

Near, and nearer to the city, and the stubborn foeman

too;

And the thunder of their cannon, and their deadly clash of steel,

Told of one continued triumph on the distant battle-hill.

Of the fair and queenly city, the glory of the East, They made for black destruction a red and royal feast; And the Furies held their banquets in the choicest of her halls,

And wrote, in crimson characters, her fate upon her

walls:

Then came the time when victory, high-seated in her

car,

Proclaimed the day of escalade,-the great day of the

war;

And our heroes heard the order in the silence of the

night,

And thought of home and kindred, and harnessed for

the fight.

O woe betide Sebastopol-the stronghold of the foe; For wrath hath made her vengeance burn to red-hot

lava glow,

And the tumult of a thousand guns commence the

horrid fray,

Till in the fury of the strife her bulwarks melt away. Like lusty bulls contending in their maddened rage to kill,

Is the charging of the warriors, in moving walls of steel; And the yelling, and the hacking, and the heaping of the slain,

Is a page too black with horrors to meet the gaze of

men.

Hurrah! hurrah!! hurrah for France! the British

legions cry,

As they see the Gallic eagle and the tri-colour on high;

And "Now for death or victory," from every Briton rings, And soon the deadly fort is stormed amid its thun

derings.

Like the crash of ships majestic, when they strike upon the seas,

Is the conflict of the combatants, and clamour on the

breeze;

Like the lull of murmuring waters, when the wreck has settled down,

Is the after-battle stillness on the ramparts of the town. All honour to those mighty men, the valiant sons

of Gaul,

Who reared the floating standard first upon the fortress wall;

But shame, eternal shame, to those vile slanderers,

who dare

To rob our heroes of the crown the French would

have them wear.

Who made grim, thundering Malakoff a weak and shot-torn thing?

And opened for the Gallic braves a breach to enter in? Who, when the stealthy Zouaves had "won a march"

By springing up like tigers fierce to strike the final blow?